


A Wedding Dress

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Reality, Anal Sex, F/M, Gay Sex, Homosexuality, M/M, Sex Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 23:30:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15695580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: What's happening to Dana? He's having these crazy dreams of being a woman in a wedding dress. But are they really dreams? ***Do I wake or do I dream?*** And how did Philip K. Dick sneak in?





	A Wedding Dress

**Author's Note:**

> A close friend told me the following, in strictest confidence. I have reason  
> to believe that the events depicted actually happened.

Dana was having that damn dream again.

So very _exquisite_ in that dress, the one with the white lace,  
the bridal gown. ( _Oh! How cute!_ All the women standing round had  
sighed.) The reception had just ended and in scant moments John was  
going to whisk the two of them away in his gleaming white Studebaker  
convertible to the rented cabin high up in the Rockies. And then the  
wedding would be consecrated in the traditional way. In a rough-hewn  
timbered bunk bed, but a _marriage_ bed, nonetheless. Ah, the  
ecstasy of finally accepting _her husband's_ flesh into herself . . .

 _What the bloody hell was going on?_ Why was he dreaming of being  
a bride? _A dame_ , for chrissake! He was a man, a _straight_  
man, damn it, and he'd sure enough slept with his share of women, even  
if he hadn't ended up marrying any.

He had never, _ever_ , had any notions or fantasies of being  
transsexual or gay. He was a _man_ , all man -- damn it! -- and that  
crap about every man having a feminine side was just that -- a load of  
crap. So, what was _this_ all about?

"You really oughta see a shrink, Dane, baby. I mean _everybody_  
dreams weird shit sometimes, but, good heavens, this isn't just weird,  
it's _fruitcake_ weird!"

Maybe it had been a mistake to confide in Jade. He'd had a wild fling with  
her a year or so back, but since then they'd been "just friends."  
She had a luscious bod, all right, but wasn't so hot in the brains  
department. All the same, maybe, just maybe, he ought to think about  
getting professional help.

 

Dr. Dixon came highly recommended, had written a book on dream  
interpretation, and was even considered something of an authority on  
gender confusion. The good doctor also charged $200 per hour, only half  
of which was covered by his health insurance. Oh, well.

"So, Dana, what exactly is it that disturbs you about this recurring  
dream?"

"Well, Doc, it's like I'm a different person, in a different body, and  
living a different life. It's just so vivid, so damn _intense_ when  
I'm dreaming it. Even after I wake, it sometimes seems like . . . like  
_this_ is the dream and _that_ is the real thing.

"How so? Is your life then so pallid, so lacking in joy and fulfillment  
that a dream overpowers it? Or, is it perhaps that you find your very  
_maleness_ unsatisfying?"

"No, damn it! I'm _proud_ to be a man, and the women I've been with  
don't have any complaints either. It's just that . . ."

"That what?"

"It's just that sometimes I get this funny feeling that everything is  
_unreal_. That I'm just a character in a story."

"Interesting. Well, We'll discuss this at greater length in our next  
session. Our time is drawing to a close now."

"Thank you, Doctor. It's been very helpful talking to you."

As he went out the door, he glanced back. Damn! He could have sworn that  
he had been talking to _someone else_ these past 45 minutes. The good  
doctor was feminine in a matronly way, with exaggerated, slightly sagging  
bosoms and generous padding from the waist down. Dr. Philippa Dixon,  
in person. But . . . he had the distinct memory that he had come in to  
talk to a Dr. _Philip_ Dixon, a distinguished grey-bearded gentleman  
in his 60s, wearing a conservative double-breasted gray suit with an  
old-fashioned pocket watch dangling from a heavy gold chain. Dana shook  
his head. More of this "unreality" shit ( _awareness displacement_ ,  
one or the other Dr. Dixons had named it) that had been bugging him ever  
since he'd started having that damn dream.
    
    
      1953 was going to be a good year. Dana just knew it.
      And, not just because she was a newlywed, either.
      Eisenhower (We like Ike) was the country's new president
      and, by golly, he'd get the boys home from that
      never-ending war in Korea and keep the Russians from blowing
      us up with their A-bombs. The economy was good, so good that
      John had just gotten another promotion. Just think, he was a
      manager now and they were getting all these shiny new
      appliances for their kitchen on time payments . . .
    
      Ooh! Life was so good! John had loved her three times
      last night, and that tingly feeling deep down inside let her
      hope that maybe she had caught. Gee, it would really be nice
      to have a baby. They were planning on at least two children
      because the McHenry (Ooh!  I like my new name!) household felt
      so empty without the patter of little feet . . .
    
      The only thing bothering her, really, was this funny feeling
      she got sometimes that she was really someone else.
      She'd wake in the early hours of the morning and it would
      take a few minutes to get used to being in a woman's body again.
      Of course she was in a woman's body; she was a woman, after all.
      But, there was this twisted dream she kept having --
      a dream of being a man, and living in some kind of
      twisted future with all these weird electrical gadgets and
      everybody afraid of suicidal fanatics blowing everything up.
      She'd take the Commies with their A-bombs, thank you.
    

There's a silver lining in every cloud. Those strange and disturbing  
dreams helped Dana get into the heads of women, the women whose pants  
he wanted to get into. If you knew deep in your gut what a woman felt,  
what moved her and made her tick, well, that made her all that much  
easier to maneuver into a compromising position. And then you'd know  
instinctively the right moves to overcome her resistance and get her  
into bed. And then you'd be able to play her like a musical instrument,  
to pleasure her so thoroughly and completely that she'd become your love  
slave. But, it felt so damn _strange_ making love to a woman  
and sensing exactly what was going on inside her and how her body  
responded. It was almost as if he were fucking an extension of his  
own body.
    
    
      John had a strange sense of humor, all right. He had named his
      penis -- his dick -- Philip K. after this weird
      neighbor of theirs who fancied himself some kind of a writer.
      This so-called writer seemed to have problems making sense of
      reality, and that was a real aggravation nowadays when everyone
      just wanted to be normal and fit in.
    
      Sure, some people called it conformity, as if it were something
      to be ashamed of. Ashamed! Why, with subversives hiding in every
      doorway and everything unstable and liable to slide off into
      chaos and anarchy if you weren't careful, well, a patriotic
      American just had to keep close watch on people to make sure
      they weren't spies or dirty Pinkos. Like that writer fellow,
      for example.
    

Even more distressing than the gender confusion Dana felt when he awoke  
was the _political_ confusion. His female dream self was a right-wing  
reactionary and she had a Neanderthal world view. Imagine, considering  
Joe McCarthy as the nation's savior from the Communist threat! It was  
just plain disgusting.
    
    
      It was distressing, all right. Dana felt these strange things
      going on inside her head, and it was all the fault of those
      dreams! For one thing, she was becoming more assertive and
      that was totally out of character for her. Why, the other
      night she had gotten the sudden urge to have John do things
      to her, right now, regardless of him snoring loudly beside
      her. She had simply reach out and grabbed his dick (Philip K.!)
      -- and started stroking it. Of course, he had awakened right away
      and wanted to know what the dickens was going on. Well, she had
      told him, all right, and told him exactly what she wanted and how
      she wanted it. When the poor boy had gotten over his shock,
      why he had given her what she wanted.
    
      Afterwards, she had been totally disgusted with herself.
      What she had asked her husband to do was just plain dirty!
      But, he had done it and . . . she had liked it.
      And, she couldn't wait to do it again.
    

Dana could understand why a woman would enjoy having her pussy licked. It  
must have come as quite a revelation to the dream self and he was pleased  
to have given her this small gift from the enlightened future. But, for  
her to suddenly get a craving for anal sex . . . where in the hell had  
that come from? And, in the dream, it had felt so damn good, so intense  
and fulfilling. Shit! Shit! Shit! And, now _he_ felt himself getting  
a craving for it . . .

Well, he had gone out and done it. The local gay guru was sort of a  
distant friend of his. And, he had told Mick that maybe, just maybe,  
he was curious about how it might feel to have a cock . . . inside his  
ass. It hadn't felt all that bad, in fact. Not quite as good as in the  
dream, but still . . . well, good enough that he might venture to try  
it again sometime when he got the itch down there. And, he had the  
hunch that he might be getting the itch pretty damn often now. Now,  
that he was awakening from those dreams with his ass throbbing and a  
raging hardon. Damn that dream Dana! She was making him queer!
    
    
      There was no damn reason she had to play the good wifey and
      stay in the house all day. Every damn thing had to be sparkling
      spick and span when John came home from work, and there had
      damn well better be a cold beer and a hot dinner on the table
      waiting for him. What in the hell was she -- his damn slave?
    
      Lately, the idea of having kids disgusted her. Having those
      nasty little creatures running around and being chained to
      them and their needs until they were 18? Not to mention
      having them grow inside you and being a pregnant
      fat sow for months and puking your guts out every morning
      and, and . . . What was she -- a brood mare? Damn it,
      she was a human being, and every bit as good as John!
      She had a brain, as well as a body, and, by golly,
      she was going to use it, no matter what people thought.
    

His new-found popularity bewildered Dane. Women clamored to tell him  
their problems, confide in him and cry on his shoulder. Maybe it was his  
_sensitivity_ or willingness to to listen and sympathize with the  
other person's woes and pains. Just as if he were another woman. A woman!

He liked women and he enjoyed their company. And, the intimacy of "girl  
talk" made it ever so easy to slip into the greater intimacy of touching  
and all that led to. That part was fine. But, what was happening to him  
scared the hell out of him.

His body was changing. He had always been proud of his wide shoulders,  
slim hips, and a well-muscled hairy, almost furry chest, but now  
he was developing a softer, more rounded outline. His chest had  
metamorphosed into two protruding soft masses with sensitive nipples,  
_just like a woman's breasts_. His hips had widened and his butt was  
spreading. _And, his dick was shrinking!_ Mostly, he couldn't even  
get hard now, and he had to use his mouth and hands to satisfy the women  
he went to bed with. Not that they complained. In fact, they _liked_  
his new, gentler form of love. But -- damn it! -- _he was turning into  
a woman_.

Or, was he? Things were so fuzzy now. Sometimes he _was_ a woman,  
and he distinctly remembered men thrusting their hard cocks into him  
(her?). Or, was _he_ the one fucking the woman, the woman he had  
been just a moment ago? It was like being in a funhouse maze of mirrors,  
seeing a thousand images of himself (herself?), each one different.  
And, constantly shifting, changing, blurring.
    
    
       John really shouldn't have tried to force himself on her.
       Sure, they'd had a bit of a tiff that night. And sure,
       she had turned her back to him in bed. But, damn it,
       that didn't give him the right to grab her by the hips and
       force his way into her from behind. She was dry inside, and
       it hurt.
    
       Rape, said a voice in her head. And, in that brief instant,
       Dana felt the power, the strength of a man flow into
       her arms.  She reached behind her and twisted John's ear.
       Twisted hard. He screamed. Screamed like a stuck pig.
       And, that excited her in some weird, perverted way. For the
       first time in her life, Dana felt blood lust.
       She balled her right fist and belted John in the mouth. Heard
       the crunch of teeth breaking. Felt a jolt of . . . excitement,
       sexual excitement. Now Dana wanted John. Wanted to fuck him.
    
       Dana was a man now, all man. Dana flipped the pitifully
       moaning, blood-dribbling husband over onto his stomach, put a
       forearm around his throat from behind, and thrust a hard,
       achingly hard and throbbing cock deep into John's ass.
       And, John whimpered with pain. Or, was it pleasure?
    

"It's no longer a dream. I really _do_ change into a woman  
sometimes. It no longer bothers me. I guess I've learned that  
_everything_ is uncertain. _The entire fabric of reality_  
shifts from one moment to the next. Probably it's that way for everybody,  
but for some reason I'm the only one who notices it."

"That confirms my diagnosis. This is a very serious condition and a  
short stay at the Institute will be necessary, under a suitable course  
of medication and electroconvulsive therapy, of course."

"Does that mean an involuntary commitment, Dr. Dixon?"

"I'm afraid so, Dana."
    
    
      "We're temporarily releasing your husband to your custody,
       Mrs. McHenry. Of course, we'll expect him back early Monday
       morning to start the therapy."
    
      "Is it really that serious, Dr. Dixon?"
    
      "Yes, ma'am. Homosexuality is a felony in this state, but we have
       some very effective hormone treatments for it here at the
       Institute. He probably won't even have to undergo shock therapy,
       much less lobotomy."
    
      "Well, we'll certainly make sure he gets the very best of care
       for his condition. Come along now, John."
    

You've probably guessed by now that I've been stretching the truth just  
a bit. It wasn't a friend of mine that this happened to.

I'll leave you guessing whether I'm the _male_ Dana in the present  
or the female Mrs. Dana McHenry living out her life in the Dark Ages of  
the 1950's, when dinosaurs and Eisenhowers still roamed the earth. Maybe  
I'm _both_. But, it doesn't really matter, does it?

What _does_ matter is that the boundaries of Reality are elastic.  
Elastic enough to include _you_ in my story, Dear Reader. _To pull_  
you in against your will. You might wake up tomorrow morning next to  
me in bed, without knowing how you got there. I'll kiss you, then gently  
roll you over onto your stomach and stroke you down there . . . and  
you'll make the startling discovery that this fine ass of yours that  
you always thought was only for shitting can also be used for fucking.

Or maybe, just maybe you'll suddenly pop into existence in the maximum  
security ward at the Institute. The one for people who have lost  
contact with reality. The other inmates here are horny, _very_ horny  
and they'll have a jolly old time taking turns with you. Fucking you.  
Gang-raping you. And, what's more, you'll _like_ it.


End file.
